


reach out and...

by stammiviktor



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Body Worship, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, M/M, Summer of mutual pining, Touch Starved Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 02:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19759036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stammiviktor/pseuds/stammiviktor
Summary: "Please,Yuuri."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Touch" by Troye Sivan

When Yuuri lived in Detroit with Phichit, they both got really good at giving massages. Nothing dirty, nothing weird, just a perfectly normal interaction between two fellow competitive figure skaters that came home from long days at the rink with their bodies aching from overuse and failed jumps. So usually, while they decompressed in front of the TV (which was usually playing The King and the Skater, or some sequel or prequel or three-quel thereof), they would take turns working the knots out of each other’s shoulders, neck, and back. 

As anyone who has ever coached, slept with, or received a massage from Katsuki Yuuri will surely remember, he takes feedback very, _very_ well. By the end of his time in Detroit, Yuuri has become the best non-professional-non-sexual-massage-giver in the world (sample size = 1). 

Yuuri enjoyed it, really. Before Phichit came to Detroit, he kept his head down, his eyes on the prize, and trained so hard that his mind couldn’t wander from failed jumps to just how lonely it was to live in a foreign country in an empty apartment on a 13-hour time difference from everyone that he loved. After Phichit and his hamsters moved in, that changed for the better—and it was those little moments of intimacy between friends who understood each other’s struggle that made him feel just a bit less stranded in America.

Then Yuuri left Detroit. He came home. And Viktor Nikiforov followed him.

Viktor, whose last memory of Yuuri Katsuki is a man with no pants and a tie around his head passionately humping his leg, comes on ~~a little~~ very strong in those early days in Hasetsu. He tries to woo Yuuri with his touch, a finger hooked under his chin or pressed to his lips, leaning in just a little too close. Every time, overwhelmed and unaware of the crucial context that sixteen glasses of Brut champagne has robbed him of, Yuuri skitters away from the closeness.

Eventually, Viktor stops.

But then, that summer—months and months spent at each other’s side, bouncing from cold and dry ice rinks to the sweltering stickiness of everywhere else. Something between them that took root in a freak April snowstorm (and even before, but Yuuri doesn’t know that yet) begins to grow during this rainy season, tugging them together, blooming in their eyes. Viktor, a St. Petersburg boy born and raised, is hardly ever seen with a shirt, without a handheld fan, or without Yuuri Katsuki standing much closer to his side than he would have dared before.

One day, Viktor, while demonstrating the quad flip, under-rotates (”the Katsudon’s fault!”) and goes sprawling across the ice. Yuuri, who hasn’t seen Viktor Nikiforov fall on the ice in at least three years, frets over him endlessly. 

“I’m fine,” he insists, but still lets Hiroko bandage the cuts on his palms from where he tried to catch his fall. (Foolishly, he hadn’t put on his gloves.) Yuuri eyes him warily all through dinner, but looks away every time Viktor catches him staring. 

They’re reviewing practice footage in Viktor’s bed (a location picked for practical reasons) that night, when Yuuri, in a fit of exhausted impulsiveness, reaches over and kneads a spot of tension in Viktor’s shoulders. He’s just looked so _tense,_ and Yuuri doesn’t even second-guess it.

It is mid-July, and Viktor has been hopelessly, pathetically in love with Yuuri Katsuki since early May at the _latest._ He has also been keeping himself from touching Yuuri in any non-coach-like capacity for at least that long, constantly stopping himself from doing something foolish like brush a wayward strand of hair from Yuuri’s face. Yuuri is the one who wanted this distance, and Viktor decided early on that he would not break it.

Then, out of nowhere, Yuuri has his hands draped over Viktor’s shoulders, his thumbs rolling over his tense muscles, and Viktor lets out a sound of helpless surprise and delight that he can’t find the dignity to be ashamed of.

“I’m sorry!” Yuuri yelps, pulling back. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, no, no, no, Yuuri, _no,_ keep going, please, that felt wonderful.”

“Are you sure? Phichit and I used to, after training, I mean, it helps with the soreness, or at least it seems like it does, and.” Yuuri swallows. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

Viktor thinks of his apartment in St. Petersburg, only marginally emptier and darker now than it was when Viktor and Makkachin lived there, and he thinks of how sometimes his skin would prickle when the poodle would shift against his leg at night. Viktor’s heart is beating in his throat, and every nerve stands on end, reaching toward Yuuri whose hands hover hesitantly between them.

 _“Please,_ Yuuri.”

That familiar glint of determination flashes in Yuuri’s eyes, making Viktor’s toes curl. Yuuri reaches out to him again, lays his hands on top of Viktor’s shoulder blades, and massages away the tension that lives there. 

Viktor’s eyes slide closed and his head lolls forward. To be touched by Yuuri is to be set on fire in the best way possible, and he utterly melts into his care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so short that I debated posting it here, but hey why not. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> support me on tumblr at [stammiviktor!](https://stammiviktor.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look i don't now what happened either but here we are

Yuuri’s childhood bed is small and ever-so-lumpy, its frame covered in peeling cartoon stickers. When he thinks of pleasure, he so often imagines himself here: the door shut, the room dark, his sheets soft and warm, the glow from his phone bathing his face. That full-body shudder of relief and delight to finally be alone with himself and to let his muscles turn to jelly. _Bliss,_ he thinks.

Or, well, he thought. Before. His new definition still involves his bed, but there’s a welcome addition.

“I can see why Makkachin likes to sleep here,” Viktor muses, running his hands up and down Yuuri’s duvet. He lays back and spreads out, the hem of his jinbei top riding up to reveal a sliver of skin at his hip bone. 

Yuuri stands at the side of the bed.

“Yuuri,” Viktor coaxes in a voice thick like _kuromitsu,_ a syrup rich and sweet that coats the back of the tongue. He reaches out a hand and Yuuri takes it, closing the gap with no resistance. 

The mattress dips beneath him and he takes a moment to savor every little bit of the man lying before him.

To think that Yuuri spent his most formative years pouring over magazines, posters, and interviews for any little detail of Viktor Nikiforov. To think, he’d practiced English by teasing apart every lilting word the teenager had spoken at press conferences and on talk shows, letting the cadence of his voice and laugh and thick Slavic accent impress itself into Yuuri’s brain. His English teacher had scolded Yuuri once for the strange stretched way he sometimes pronounced his “L’s”, like they were halfway to becoming a “Y”. 

Both of their accents are nearly gone now. So many years have passed since then. Viktor Nikiforov is lying in Yuuri’s bed, looking up at Yuuri just as Yuuri used to look up at his posters.

Yuuri hovers over him, his hand reaching out but not yet touching, not yet _sure._ His fingers tremble.

The back of one fingernail skims the peak of Viktor’s hipbone, and the mattress quakes with Viktor’s shudder. 

Yuuri smiles. At center ice before his _Eros_ program, Yuuri often winks at Viktor— _I know who I’m dancing for—_ and it fills him with the same kind of raw power that surges through him now.

After they got home from the train station earlier that evening, they had slipped in the onsen to soothe their bodies aching from a rather rough and unexpected landing on the ice. Afterward, they took turns showering. Viktor’s hair, sprawled out on Yuuri’s pillow, is still wet with a mercurial looking shine. He’s removed every bit of makeup; his eyelashes, normally accentuated with mascara, flutter long and pale over the very top of his cheekbones.

There’s such a delicate part to Viktor’s lips that Yuuri can scarcely think of more than kissing him, and kissing him, and _kissing_ him the way they haven’t done since… well, since ever. The kiss on the ice was a surprise, and surprisingly chaste for how Yuuri had always imagined their first would be; the kiss in the hotel room afterward was more like kisses, plural, and the very opposite of chaste; but what’s left now is what they’ve craved from the start, that melting sort of coming together that words could never hope to describe.

Viktor inhales a gasp through those sweetly parted lips as Yuuri’s left hand dances upward to the apex of jinbei’s v-neck. The pad of his index finger presses into the muscled skin of Viktor’s chest and the reaction is instantaneous; his knees twitch and toes curl, his lower back arches slightly, _deliciously,_ his fingers bunch the duvet into his fist. 

Emboldened, Yuuri lets his hand settle fully over Viktor’s chest, splaying his fingers and settling their weight against his skin. Viktor’s adam’s apple bobs over and over as he tries to swallow, a visual made all the more tantalizing by the way he throws his head back into the pillow and lifts his chin to the ceiling, exposing the delicate line of his throat that extends down to the hollow of his collarbone. Yuuri’s hand slides upward, tracing those clean lines with the back of his fingers and drifting up, just a moment, to linger at his thundering pulse point. 

Viktor right hand unwinds from the bedding as his self-control runs out—he rests his palm against the back of Yuuri’s wrist, curls his fingers around him and guides him upward. The kiss Viktor leaves in Yuuri’s palm is wet and warm and shuddering, something precious and terribly vulnerable to be trusted with. Yuuri’s hand drifts to cup Viktor’s face, his thumb trailing over his cheekbone and jawline before finally cupping the side of his head, his flushed skin warm and wet hair cold at the tips of Yuuri’s fingers.

The noises from Viktor’s mouth are like music, strung together in a plaintive melody that Yuuri could skate to if he were to be so bold; on ice, this moment would be a program of longing and desperate closeness that would, in the end, probably look no different than their _Stammi Vicino Duetto._

 _“Yuuri,”_ Viktor begs, craven voice cracked open with not want, not lust, but _need._ It’s as if he won’t be able to breathe until Yuuri lays down beside him, astride him, takes his electric body in his arms and exhales into him as if feeding him oxygen right from his own lungs.

Yuuri knows this is how Viktor feels because of the way he writhes beneath every twitch of Yuuri’s hands and the way he flushes from his cheeks down to his chest; the way his breathing shortens; the way he pleads with his sea-blue eyes and his words and the _finallyfinallypleasefinally_ spilling from his every pore and filling the air between them. 

But, most importantly, Yuuri knows how Viktor feels because in his mind, in this moment, Yuuri is the one spread prostrate before Viktor, lying, waiting, wanting with such painful vulnerability that he can hardly trust himself to speak.

He leans down, so slowly it hurts, and into Viktor’s ear breathes, “Please take care of me.”

In his arms, Viktor’s entire being quakes with the aftershocks that radiate from everywhere their skin touches, and then from _everywhere_ as Yuuri’s words rock through him. 

_“Yes,”_ Viktor croaks. “And you’ll take care of me, too.”

Yuuri will. There’s no question. Looking down at Viktor, he wants to keep him like this forever—shivering with delight as he’s lavished with the love he’s always deserved but never before received.

Here in Yuuri’s childhood bed, they kiss for the third time, for a _long_ time, until the desperation soothes to euphoric delight and, eventually, they both become so tired they can barely keep their eyes open.

Intertwined and alight, they sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! please let me know what you thought!!


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